


so make it work for you

by MacksDramaticShenanigans



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Advice, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Conversations, Discussions of marriage, Helpful Lip Gallagher, M/M, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Protective Mickey Milkovich, s10e8 scene rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacksDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/MacksDramaticShenanigans
Summary: He gnaws anxiously on his lower lip where it’s wedged firmly between his teeth. Then he opens his mouth. And hesitates.Lip waits patiently, not pushing Mickey to talk. Not yet, anyways. His cigarette hangs from his fingers, burning down to the filter, forgotten.It reminds Mickey of his own, and he flicks off the ash that’s collected before sucking on the end and steeling himself for the delivery. “I think Ian killed his PO,” he finally says in a rushed exhale. And it sort of feels like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders, saying that out loud to someone. It’s not completely gone, but it isn’t so heavy now that he’s sharing the weight of it with someone else. He can’t ignore the flare up of guilt that comes along with admitting something like that, though.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 19
Kudos: 116





	so make it work for you

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello helloooo, it's me! i've risen from the dead lol. nah, i don't know what it is but i've been having the absolute worst on and off bouts of writers block ever and they've been hitting extra hard lately, and it's super frustrating because i have so!! many!! wips right now!!
> 
> anyways, this fic wasn't one of those wips lol, but i got the idea for this in my head and it wouldn't go away so i just sat down and let it all spill out.
> 
> basically, this is a rewrite of some of s10e8 because idk about y'all but i _fucking despise_ that scene where mickey goes to _fucking terry_ about what he should do when he thinks ian might have been the one to kill paula. like???? that scene just makes _absolutely no sense at all_ to me. i don't understand why mickey would voluntarily go back to that house and like help terry out with his shit?? after everything that happened there's NO WAY he would do that, NO WAY!! and i don't understand why mickey would think it's a good idea to go to terry about a problem he has concerning ian. i refuse to believe mickey would ever go to terry for advice PERIOD, but especially not for advice concerning ian. that makes no fuckin sense to me. that whole scene just,,,, should not exist, so i decided that it doesn't now and i rewrote it lol. 
> 
> i know ian has a similar conversation with lip, but i'm also pretending that either doesn't happen or hasn't happened yet idk. i vaguely remember seeing a post on tumblr about how the scene with mickey and terry would've been a whole lot better if it was lip who mickey got advice from and i really liked that, so i decided to run with it.
> 
> so here's mickey and lip having a ~moment~ because they deserve the chance to break bread over something, even if it is how to deal with ian potentially committing homicide :)
> 
> the title comes from the poem [Landscape With Fruit Rot and Millipede](http://www.versedaily.org/2015/fruitrotmillipede.shtml) by Richard Siken, of course lol
> 
> this is unbeataed, so any and all mistakes are my own!
> 
> without further ado, please enjoy!

“Ay, easy there, you’re gonna wear a hole through the fucking tile man,” Lip says from where he stands in the frame of the back door.

Mickey jolts, nearly tripping over his own feet, and his head snaps towards the door. His pacing comes to an abrupt halt, and his muscles tense, ready to spring into action depending on whether he needs to make a quick escape or to square up and fight someone. He’s not sure how well he’d fare in a fight, though. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn’t even heard the door open. He’s far from in the right headspace for a fight; there’s not a chance in hell he’d win one right now.

Luckily a fight isn’t necessary, and neither is running. It’s only Lip.

Mickey lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and his pacing starts back up, the soles of his boots squeaking against the tile with each turn.

He can feel Lip’s eyes on him, following him as he moves through the small space between the sink and the washing machine, and he’s seconds away from snapping at him to take a fucking picture, it’ll last longer, except he isn’t so sure Lip _wouldn’t_ actually do that just to get under his skin.

But then Lip pushes the door shut behind him— and Mickey hears it this time— and wipes his boots on the mat before ambling over to the washing machine. He opens the hatch and starts to shrug off his grease stained flannel, balling it up and tossing it in. There’s a half-full laundry basket and another pile of probably dirty clothes beneath the laundry chute, and as Lip turns to add that to the mix, Mickey zones back out.

“You got anything you need washed?” Lip asks, glancing at Mickey over his shoulder.

Mickey’s pacing stutters again, eyebrows bunching together for a second as the question takes some time to push through the rest of his clouded mind and register. When it finally does he shakes his head and waves Lip’s question off.

He’s vaguely aware of the thumping of the washing machine as the cycle starts up, and the otherwise silence of the room makes him think that Lip’s disappeared upstairs or into the other room. So when Lip speaks up from where he’s actually leaning against the dishwasher, Mickey’s caught off guard _yet again_.

"Okay, what the fuck's got you so stressed?" 

Mickey regards him for a second. “You got a fuckin’ smoke or something?” He asks in lieu of a proper response to Lip’s question. 

Lip waits, almost like he’s hoping that’s not all Mickey has to say. But Mickey raises an eyebrow and Lip concedes. He pats his left pants pocket, then his right and produces a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes and a little green zippo. He holds them up and gives them a shake. Jackpot. “You’re lucky the switch to nicotine patches didn’t hold up,” Lip laughs, then jerks his chin towards the back door. 

Mickey abandons his well worn patch of kitchen tiles to follow Lip outside.

Lip’s already sitting on the top step of the back stairs, a cigarette dangling loosely between his lips as he holds his lighter up to the end. The flame catches and the filter burns bright orange. A tendril of smoke starts to rise.

“You just gonna stand there?” Lip asks, casting a glance to Mickey where he’s hovering by the railing. Lip gives a pointed look towards the rest of the empty step beside him and lifts the pack of cigarettes again.

“I’m. Fuck, I’m coming,” Mickey says, shoving the slight awkwardness he feels about sitting and smoking on the back porch with Lip Gallagher of all people. That’s not something he ever could have seen himself doing. But desperate times, he guesses.

Reluctantly Mickey lowers himself onto the step and reaches for the pack. He shakes out the second to last cigarette and sticks it between his teeth before holding a hand out for the lighter. Lip drops it into his palm, and Mickey grunts out a thanks and lights up.

Mickey takes a long drag, closing his eyes as he holds it in until the racing of his mind slows, just a little bit. As he exhales, blowing the smoke out in a thin stream, he feels some of the stress go with it.

When he opens his eyes, however, Lip’s still sitting next to him, watching him carefully. He looks like he has something he wants to say, something pressing he wants to ask, and Mickey already knows it’s going to be about the pacing again.

Mickey sighs under his breath, masking it as another exhale of smoke. “Either you got somethin’ you wanna say to me or you got somethin’ you wanna say to Ian, ‘cause that fuckin’ stare, man,” he snaps when Lip doesn’t look like he’s ever going to spit it the fuck out.

Lip huffs out a laugh. “Nah, fuck off,” he says, shaking his head. He takes a few seconds to suck on his cigarette again before continuing. “You just look like you really needed that,” he finally says, shrugging.

“Always need a fuckin’ smoke, living here,” Mickey replies, trying to brush it off. He’s not so sure how much he wants to share with Lip— if he even wants to share _any_ of it in the first place.

Lip chuckles again. “Yeah,” he agrees, flicking some ash off of the butt. “It’s more than that, though. You look like you’re on edge, man. Like seriously on edge.” He pauses, and for a second Mickey thinks that might be it. That Lip might not actually push it like he’d been expecting. But then Lip turns hard eyes on him and asks, “What’s up with that?”

And there it is.

Mickey kicks the toe of his shoe against the bottom of the railing and takes a harsh drag of his cigarette before resting his forearm against his knee. He purses his lips, staring hard at a patch of dead grass a few feet away as he considers his options. He could tell Lip to fuck off, tell him that it’s none of his goddamn business what he’s stressing out about. But then again, Ian _is_ Lip’s brother, and if he _is_ in trouble Lip should know. And it’s not like he won’t find out eventually, anyways. Plus, despite the hours Mickey spent pacing the kitchen and working through scenario after scenario in his head he still hasn’t come up with a game plan. He’s fucking _lost_ . He doesn’t know what to _do_. And a little advice, even if it is from Lip, would be helpful.

He gnaws anxiously on his lower lip where it’s wedged firmly between his teeth. Then he opens his mouth. And hesitates.

Lip waits patiently, not pushing Mickey to talk. Not yet, anyways. His cigarette hangs from his fingers, burning down to the filter, forgotten.

It reminds Mickey of his own, and he flicks off the ash that’s collected before sucking on the end and steeling himself for the delivery. “I think Ian killed his PO,” he finally says in a rushed exhale. And it sort of feels like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders, saying that out loud to someone. It’s not completely gone, but it isn’t so heavy now that he’s sharing the weight of it with someone else. He can’t ignore the flare up of guilt that comes along with admitting something like that, though.

“You— _what_?” Lip asks, sitting up straighter. It’s clear that’s not at all what he’d been expecting to hear.

Mickey nods, and his leg starts to bounce where it’s propped up on a lower step. “Yeah,” he says. “I think he fuckin’ popped her.”

Lip breathes. He blinks. He looks at Mickey. “You think Ian killed his PO?” He repeats, taking the last three words slow, like they take effort for him to say.

Mickey stifles an impatient eye roll. “That’s what I fuckin’ said,” he snaps. “Twice.”

Lip takes another drag of his cigarette before putting it out beneath the toe of his boot. Then he scrubs his hands down his face, blowing out a steady stream of air. “Fuck. Guess that hole in the tile’s pretty worthwhile then, huh?” He comments. “What the fuck makes you think that?”

“We were goin’ to Patsy’s this morning and the cops showed up right as we left the house. They cornered us and told us his bitch of a PO was dead. Fuckin’ pushed out her goddamn window. They wanted us to come in for questioning, but, uh,” Mickey trails off, scratching at the back of his neck as he remembers jumping the fence and hiding out behind the neighbor’s tree. He decides to leave that part out. “Me and Ian talked about it and he asked me if I did it,” he scoffs a little, “and I told him no, ‘cause I didn’t fuckin’ kill the bitch. So I asked him if he did it, and he didn’t _say he did it_ , but he _said he did it_ , y’know?”

Lip blinks again. “No. No I don’t fuckin’ know, Mickey. What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means he was actin’ all weird about it,” Mickey explains, picking at his cuticle. “Jittery and shit. He kept _lookin_ ' at me funny. Like he was trying to tell me something without having to actually say it. Kept implyin’ that he thought _I_ was hidin’ something.”

“Just to be clear, you’re _not_ hiding something, are you?” Lip asks, eyeing Mickey warily.

Mickey levels a glare at Lip. “No, Phillip, I ain’t hidin’ shit,” he answers testily. 

“Okay,” Lip says. “So you think he killed her?” He asks next, and if that isn’t the hundredth fucking time he’s asked that stupid fucking question.

“Oh my god, jesus fuckin’ christ, I think we’ve fuckin’ established that already,” Mickey snaps. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been sayin’, he might’ve fuckin’ killed her. Do I need to spell it out for you?” And, god, he thought Lip was supposed to be one of the smart ones. A big shot college boy or whatever. That university shit must not be all it’s cracked up to be if Lip’s this fucking slow on the uptake. Mickey’s starting to think he’s submitting himself to this conversation for no good reason. Wasting his time looking for advice in the wrong spots. 

Lip gives him a flat look and shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I mean,” he says. “I mean do _you_ think he actually did it?” He clarifies.

“I—” Mickey starts, but cuts himself off. He wants to say no, no he doesn’t fucking think that. He’d love to say he doesn’t think Ian’s even capable of something like that, but that isn’t fucking true. Ian’s _more than_ capable. Hell, Mickey’s had to talk him off of that ledge several times in the past. Granted, he’d been manic all those times, but who’s to say that isn’t the case now? Mickey doesn’t think Ian’s manic, but Ian’s good at hiding things until they get really bad. Even from Mickey. 

Still, Mickey doesn’t think that Ian would tank his parole over that. Maybe he would’ve if Mickey was still stuck in the joint, but he’s _not_ . They’re both out, they’re together, they’re _happy_. For the first time in a long time, they’re fucking happy. Ian wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that. 

Mickey lets out a frustrated noise. “I don’t fucking know,” he finally admits, and he feels that familiar tightening in his chest, at the base of his throat. The pressure behind his eyes, the stinging at the corners. He grits out another sound and drops his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot as he squares his feet on the lower step and leans his elbows onto his knees. Mickey presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, then wipes his palms down the rest of his face. No fucking way he’s going to fucking cry in front of Lip. Fat chance. He’d used up all his self-provided judgement free breakdown cards back when Ian had been first getting diagnosed.

“Okay,” Lip says slowly, and Mickey can tell by that one word alone that he’s not doing a very good job of masking anything. He can appreciate the way Lip’s not bringing it up, though. It’s pretty decent of him. “Is that… have you talked to the cops yet?” Lip asks.

“Have I talked… no. I haven’t talked to the cops yet,” Mickey says. “I don’t think Ian has either,” Mickey adds. But he isn’t one hundred percent on that. He hasn’t seen Ian since this morning. He could be at the police station as they speak.

“Okay,” Lip says again, and it’s sort of starting to grate on Mickey’s nerves. Nothing about this situation is fucking okay. “You thinkin’ about telling them what you’re telling me?” He asks it carefully, like he’s walking on eggshells with the question.

Mickey’s face twists up and he recoils. What the fuck kind of question is that? “What the fuck kind of question is that?” He barks, and the tightness of his chest relinquishes just enough to let a simmering anger seep in. “Of course I’m fuckin’ not. Fuck you for thinkin’ I would!” He bites out. 

He’s up on his feet in an instant, the pacing starting back up again. 

“Even if he did do it, I ain’t a fuckin’ snitch.” Which isn’t entirely true, considering the only way he and Ian were even reunited was because he fucking snitched. But that’s besides the point. He wouldn’t do that to Ian. Never Ian. 

Lip holds his hands up in surrender. "Relax," he says. “I’m not saying you’re anything,” he defends. “I’m just,” he pauses, “considering your options here.”

“My options?” Mickey repeats.

“Yeah, your options,” Lip says. He pauses again, eyes squinting as he considers. “You gotta talk to them?” he questions.

Mickey narrows his eyes at Lip. “I mean, yeah, probably. They said they gotta talk to all her parolees. Even if I was only one of them for, like, a week.” He sighs. “I don’t think there’s an easy way out of this.”

Lip nods, eyes not leaving the random point he’s staring at a few feet away. He concentrates on it, lips pursing up to one side as he digests Mickey’s answer and fits it into one of his college boy equations or whatever it is he’s doing. Mickey would kind of like to know what the fuck he’s thinking. Lip rubs at his chin, then nods again and turns his gaze on Mickey. “You could run,” he suggests.

Mickey stops in his tracks. "Why the fuck would I do that?"

Lip's expression is carefully neutral as he explains. "You wouldn't have to tell the cops shit about what Ian did or didn't do if you weren't here to do it."

Mickey lets out a bitter laugh. "Are you kidding me?" He says in disbelief. "I'm not fuckin' running. I'm not leaving Ian to deal with this. I’m not leaving him, period. Fuck that,” he snaps. That simmering anger now burns hot, a fully fledged flame licking at his insides. The suggestion that he would run at the first sign of trouble, that it would be his first choice… it’s unbelievable. It’s insulting. It’s _offensive_ . Like Mickey hasn’t proved his fucking loyalty time and time again. Like he’d decide _now_ , after everything they’ve been through, that this is just too much, that this is the last straw, that he can’t fucking take it anymore. Fuck that.

He can’t say it doesn’t hurt that Ian’s family _still_ isn’t fully convinced that Mickey’s any good for their brother. But that’s not something he has the luxury to cry over right now. Ian knows he’s good for him, and Mickey knows he’s good for him, and that’s all that really matters right now. Ian needs him, and he’ll be damned if he’s gonna let Lip’s condescending big-brother schtick get in the way of that.

“I need to _protect_ him,” Mickey asserts. “He’s not going back in the joint, not fuckin’ happening. Not because of that corrupt bitch. I need to make sure he stays the fuck out. That he stays here. With me. _Safe_.”

Lip doesn’t say anything at first, Mickey’s heavy breathing the only sound between them. 

Mickey’s chest heaves, but his jaw clenches tight as he stares Lip down with a stony glare, waiting for the smug son of a bitch to question him again.

But Lip doesn’t question him again. He doesn’t make any snide comments. Instead, he fucking _smiles_.

Mickey feels _thrown_.

He watches, confused, as Lip rises to his feet and joins him on the porch, leaning his arms onto the railing. He’s quiet for a few beats, looking out at the dirt path beside the house, at the tree where Mickey hid this morning. Then he looks over his shoulder at Mickey. “I believe you,” he finally says.

What exactly Lip believes him about, Mickey isn’t entirely sure. None of what he just said was up for Lip to question; it was Mickey speaking his mind. It’s probably the closest Mickey will ever come to spilling his heart out for Lip Gallagher to see. And maybe that’s what Lip believes. Mickey’s feelings. That he’s in this for the long run, thick and thin, innocent or guilty. That what he feels for Ian is the real fucking deal. Mickey thinks Lip might finally see that. And if he doesn’t wish that it wasn’t Ian’s potential guilt in a first degree murder case that led him to that conclusion.

Something changes in Lip’s face as he studies Mickey, and Mickey thinks it might be… _approval_ that he sees reflected in Lip’s eyes.

And fuck. That feels kind of good.

Mickey clenches his teeth together and rests his arms on the railing too. “I don’t know what to fuckin’ do,” he says quietly, feeling helpless. 

“You could always get married,” Lip suggests, and Mickey’s head whips around so fast.

“What?” He demands.

“Yeah,” Lip says. “There’s this legal thing called, uh… shit what is it...” he waves a hand through the air as he grasps for the name. Then his face lights up and he snaps his fingers. “Spousal privilege , that’s what it is. Yeah. It’s this legal rule where you can’t testify against your spouse in court or anything,” he explains.

“Wait,” Mickey says slowly. “You’re saying that if Ian and I were to…” he wags a finger between himself and an imaginary Ian beside him, “if we were to get hitched then anything that happens between us— anything we do or say to each other— all that shit stays a secret?”

And fuck, that’s kind of perfect, albeit a little too good to be true.

But Lip just nods. “Yeah, that’s exactly what it means. He’s covered. You’re covered. You protect each other.”

Mickey presses his lips together and mulls it over. On the one hand, marrying Ian and not having to testify against each other would solve every problem he has about this situation. He and Ian could talk candidly about what actually happened to Paula, and Mickey could help Ian come up with a plan to keep himself from going back, this time with a bigger charge— if Ian was the one who really killed her, anyways. Mickey still isn’t convinced that that’s the case. But if it was…

On the other hand, marriage is a big deal. Like, a _really big fucking deal_. It isn’t something that should be decided as a spur of the moment decision. It involves thinking things over, taking time to weigh the pros and cons, figuring out what it will mean for their relationship. Marriage is two people tying themselves to each other for the rest of their lives. It’s the biggest kind of commitment there is.

But Mickey _is_ committed to Ian. There’s no one else, there hasn’t _ever_ _been_ anyone else. There never _will be_ anyone else. Ian is _it_ for him. It’s a thought that’s crossed his mind many a time before, if he’s being honest. So is the thought of spending the rest of his life with Ian, as scary as that is to admit. But they aren’t things he’s ever let himself really entertain. At first because of the overwhelming magnitude of what it meant. But then because it never seemed like a possibility. Not with how many times they’ve lost each other. Mickey hadn’t ever let himself hope like that.

But now… everything is good now. And forever… it doesn’t seem quite so off in the stars now. It isn’t untouchable anymore. It isn’t impossible.

And now that Mickey is finally letting himself think about it… _fuck_ . He’s realizing how much he _wants_ that. Forever with Ian. It sounds like a fucking dream, but here it is, within reality, within _reach_ for the first time. 

He just isn’t so sure he wants this to be the reason they take that step.

Mickey chews on his lip. Scratches at the corner of his eyebrow. Looks to Lip. “You think that’s a good idea?” He asks. And he doesn’t know if he’s asking about the spousal privilege part or the marriage part. Maybe both.

“You know,” Lip starts slowly. “I don’t think it’s something I would’ve suggested in the past,” he admits, and he chuckles a little, smiles none too ruefully. “But if I’m being honest,” he continues, folding his hands together and rocking back flat on his feet, “like, _really_ honest,” he adds, eyebrows twitching up, and the waiting might just drive Mickey insane. Lip pushes off of the railing to stand at his full height, and he looks right into Mickey’s eyes, searching them. “I think it is,” he finally says, nodding firmly. “I really do.” The corner of his mouth pulls up in the start of an earnest smile, and Mickey knows that his answer runs deeper than just spousal privilege.

Mickey swallows around the lump that suddenly sits in his throat and gives the barest hint of a nod, at a loss of what he could possibly say back to that. He fights the urge to break the eye contact, feeling far too exposed under the intensity of Lip’s stare. He feels kind of twitchy, uncomfortable, _vulnerable_. But Mickey thinks he owes it to Lip to let him see how much his words really mean to him. 

He’s given an out when his phone starts to ring, and he clears his throat and fishes the device from his pocket, dropping his eyes to the screen. Ian’s name and the ridiculous selfie Ian insisted they take back when they were first hanging out stares back at him, and Mickey feels simultaneous jolts of relief and fear shoot through him.

He accepts the call and holds the phone up to his ear, turning away from Lip. “Ian?” He asks, and he winces at how panicked he sounds.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian’s tinny voice replies. He doesn’t sound like he’s hurt or in any immediate trouble, and Mickey’s relief surpasses his fear. “Where are you?”

“At home,” Mickey answers. “Where are you?”

“Took Liam on an errand,” Ian says, not providing any further detail. Mickey would be more concerned about what exactly this ‘errand’ entails if it weren’t for the fact that Liam was there. No way Ian would try to get rid of evidence or anything like that if Liam was with him. “You wanna meet me at Patsy’s in, like, twenty minutes? You still owe me those flapjacks from this morning,” he adds, and Mickey can hear the smile in his voice.

His own mouth curves into a soft smile and he feels a little ridiculous about how easy it is for Ian to pull that kind of reaction from him, even unintentionally. “I think you mean _you_ owe _me_ those flapjacks,” he responds. “But we can fight over the check after we eat ‘em.”

Ian laughs, and for a second, Mickey thinks everything is going to be okay.

“Great,” Ian says. “I’ll see you there. Love you.” Then he hangs up.

Mickey shuts his eyes, lets his smile linger just a little bit longer, then schools his features and turns back to Lip. “That was Ian,” he tells him, pocketing his phone. “He’s fine,” he adds, before Lip can ask like Mickey knows he was going to. “He wants me to meet him at Patsy’s.”

“Yeah, I caught that,” Lip says. “Flapjacks,” he explains, chuckling.

“Flapjacks,” Mickey repeats. He jerks his thumb towards the door, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “I should probably, uh, go then,” he says.

“Yeah, go on,” Lip tells him, patting the railing. Then before Mickey can leave: “Hey, and uh, you’ll let me know what’s going on, yeah? With all of this? Keep me in the loop and stuff?”

Mickey nods and steps towards the door. He closes his fingers around the doorknob, turns, and starts to push it open. It only opens a crack before Mickey pauses. “Lip,” he says, turning back.

Lip looks up from where he’s shaking out the last cigarette in his pack. “Yeah?”

“Uh. Thanks,” Mickey says. The words feels clunky in his mouth. It’s not something he says and genuinely means very often. Not because he’s some asshole that doesn’t have manners, but because saying thank you involves an acknowledgement that he needed help. And he hates needing help.

He’s glad he got it this time, though.

Lip’s eyebrows jump up, against his own volition if the way he quickly schools is features into something more neutral is anything to go off of. But then a small smile graces his lips and he nods. “Yeah, no problem, Mickey,” he says. “Thanks for looking out for him,” he adds. “He’s gonna get through this. Whatever it is. You both will.”

Mickey nods, not trusting himself with words after that.

As he heads inside to grab his coat before leaving to meet Ian at Patsy’s, he thinks, yeah, they are gonna get through this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think with a kudos and a comment! 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/richiefuckintozierbaby) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/BrklynBabyBucky)! :)


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